


my mind is on the blink

by logicalspecs



Series: requests :) [3]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Break Up Era, Gen, geo just wants a break, sick! paul, tw descriptions of illness, tw symptoms of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 10:21:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19207408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/logicalspecs/pseuds/logicalspecs
Summary: "...ooo requests well, you could have Paul being sick too..." - Laura+paul + george friendship with some hurt paul for rockon1973"He’s tired. God, he’s just so tired.He’s always tired these days, and no amount of sleep seems to quell the ache in his head, or the nausea that has made a home in his stomach. It’s getting harder and harder to drag himself to the studio- hell, he can barely get out of bed every morning."





	my mind is on the blink

**Author's Note:**

> so sorry this took so long to get out, school is absolutely hectic right now, but exams are next week so hopefully i'll have more free time after that skks
> 
> thank you to Laura and rockon1973 for your lovely requests, and i hope y'all don't mind that i combined the two of them!!
> 
> warnings: symptoms of depression, descriptions of illness
> 
> [title from the beatles' 'i'm so tired']
> 
> this is in no way correlated to the people mentioned in this fictional story

He’s tired. God, he’s just _so_ tired.

He’s always tired these days, and no amount of sleep seems to quell the ache in his head, or the nausea that has made a home in his stomach. It’s getting harder and harder to drag himself to the studio- hell, he can barely get out of bed every morning.

He hasn't shaved in awhile, but he can't bring himself to care anymore. His hair hangs loosely in front of his eyes, unwashed and dirty.

He can't say exactly when this slump had started, but it had gotten significantly worse over the past few weeks, and the cold he seems to have caught isn't helping.

A cough tears from his throat, and quickly drops the pencil he had been using in favour of curling around himself. He feels eyes burning into his back, and he quickly shoves the urge to cough down and straightens up again.

"Y'alright?" Ringo's soft voice comes from behind him, and his head snaps up. His vision blurs as the world tilts, and he quickly blinks away the wash of nausea.

"Yeah, I'm fine." He says, but he almost isn't sure the words actually leave his mouth as he stumbles up from his chair, before falling to his knees at the poor nearby trash can, and heaving.

His throat burns, but nothing comes up. He hasn't been eating much lately, his appetite having gone weeks ago, when John announced he was leaving him-

 _Them,_ he reminds himself as his stomach curls and his hands clench around the bin. It hurts, and he can feel a familiar burn in his eyes, though he isn't sure if it's because of his illness or from the untimely reminder that everything's falling apart and he can't do anything about it.

A gentle hand smooths across his back in even, calming motions, urging him to relax, and his breath slowly evens out as he slowly pries his eyes open.

It's only when he falls back away from the bin, his breaths even but heavy and tears still filling his eyes, that he realizes the hand belongs to George, while Ringo hovers worriedly to the side.

His shoulders tense, subconsciously, as he recognizes George’s long, slender fingers still clasped on his arm, their warmth burning his skin through the fabric of his blazer.

"Paul?" George’s voice is soft, and it lacks the biting tone that Paul has become so accustomed to over the past year or so. It shocks him, much more than it probably should, and he's suddenly leaning over the bin again, his stomach burning as he gags.

"Hey, hey, yer alright," George mutters near his ear, and Paul suddenly realizes how much he missed this side of George- calm, gentle, comforting. Not just a coworker, but a _friend._

_When did they stop being friends?_

"We're still friends, Paul." George mutters, his voice pitying, and Paul frowns.

"What?"

"I said, we're still friends." George’s voice edges towards that all too familiar bitterness again, and Paul almost flinches away. He sounds more exasperated than angry, Paul tells himself, screwing his eyes shut as he forces his words from his mouth.

"I- I never said we weren't?" He splutters, cursing his own trembling words.

"Ya just did, mate." George raises a questioning eyebrow, worry creasing his forehead.

"Did I say that out loud?" Paul whispers, not trusting his lips to not spill his thoughts.

George's frown deepens, and he stands slowly, reaching a hand down to help Paul up.

"Come on, I'll take you home. Yer ill. No point in keeping ya here." George pulls him to his feet, and Paul stumbles slightly before George steadies him with a grip on his shoulder.

Paul almost wants to resist George’s help, to push him away, to spare the pain he knows he will feel once George leaves again. They’ll go back to hating each other, Paul’s sure of it, and they’ll pretend like this never happened.

And yet, he’s not going to waste this chance while he has it, and he follows George numbly as the younger man fetches their coats and his keys, whispering something to Ringo as he passes. Judging by George’s nod in his direction, Paul assumes it’s something about him.

Ringo just nods in response, before whispering something back, and Paul suddenly feels incredibly dizzy. He reaches out a hand to steady himself, but finds nothing but air as his knees buckle below him and the floor suddenly rises to meet him.

His knees hit the tile hard, a dull thud ringing in the room, but his brain feels too muddled to actually register any pain. He hears someone call out his name, the sound seemingly coming from miles away as his vision swims.

Strong arms wrap around his chest, preventing him from completely hitting the ground. He blinks up at George's warm, _worried_ , brown eyes, and his world burns like paper, the black edges of his vision taking over as his thoughts crumble away like ash.

/--/

As Paul slumps in his arms, a dead weight, George feels his heart sink like lead. 

“Richie, call a doctor to Paul’s place,” He says, the words spilling from his mouth in a bout of adrenaline as he shifts Paul’s unconscious body closer to his chest, the taller man’s chin digging into his shoulder, though he can’t seem to find it in himself to care.

He hooks his arm behind Paul’s back and under his legs, using pure adrenaline to stand, carrying Paul bridal-style. The older man seems almost too light, his shoulder blades digging into the flesh of George’s arm. He mentally makes a note to get the bassist to eat something.

They make it to Paul’s place in record time, Ringo offering to drive. George sits in the backseat with Paul’s head in his lap, the older man slipping in and out of consciousness several times, trapped in some sort of fretful sleep.

The doctor is already at the house when they arrive, and Ringo helps him carry the now half-conscious Paul inside. 

They lay him down in one of the many bedrooms they find, and Ringo takes his leave as soon as they settle Paul down, saying he wants to give the doctor more space to work.

As George watched the doctor work, he almost wonders if they should've taken Paul straight to the hospital.

He’d always remembered Paul looking so peaceful in his sleep, his face young and carefree, and yet, now, as the doctor press a stethoscope to Paul’s chest, he sees nothing but a tired and lonely young man.

It almost seems too easy to forget that they’re all still children, with their entire lives still ahead of them. Just yesterday, they were playing for Ed Sullivan, forgetting the words to their own songs, laughing and _living._

Paul looks half-dead, his hair splayed over the pillow like a halo around his head. His face seems eternally tense, his eyes screwed shut. His skin is pale and clammy, though his cheeks flush an unnatural red with fever, the colour stark against the rest of his face.

The doctor sends him to fetch a cool cloth, and he quickly makes his way from the room, away from the haunting visage of his old friend.

_When did we stop being friends?_

Paul's words repeat over and over in his head as he walks down the steps to the kitchen, haunting him like a melody he can't seem to forget. He would always consider Paul a friend- a brother, even, despite how much of a git the older man was being. 

The house is empty, George realizes as he searches the cupboards for a cloth of some kind. Linda and little Heather both nowhere to be seen. He faintly recalls a fleeting conversation he’d overheard between Paul and Ringo- something about them visiting family back in America.

 _He’s alone,_ George realizes somberly, wetting the newfound cloth and making his way upstairs. _He was going to go through this alone?_

The doctor is taking Paul’s temperature when he gets back, and George almost reels back at how much the sight of Paul bedridden and ill terrifies him. Paul was constant, Paul was their rock. 

George just needed a break from it all. Was that so bad?

Away from the fame, the press, the constant pressure to say the right things. Away from Paul’s controlling nature, from the single entity that was now _John &Yoko._

He had never meant to hurt Paul in the process, not really. 

_Families fight, Macca, but they still love each other in the end,_ he thinks as he smooths back Paul's sweaty bangs. His skin is hot to the touch, and George wonders why on earth the man decided he was well enough to come in to the studio today.

“Mr. McCartney's just got a case of the flu, nothing too serious,” The doctor’s voice cuts in through his musings. “Give him any sort of ibuprofen you have, and make sure he rests, drinks lots of fluids, and try and get him to eat something light. He seems slightly malnourished.”

George raises a brow at that, but nods slowly. “Alright, thank you.”

The doctor gives him a curt and professional nod as he packs his things.

“Check his temperature regularly. If it goes above 39 degrees, take him to the hospital.” The doctor then excuses himself from the room, leaving George alone with Paul’s labored breathing echoing in the room. 

He stands there for a moment, half hoping that Paul will suddenly wake up, but the older man merely shivers in his sleep, curling in slightly on himself, and George frowns.

He pulls the sheet over Paul’s shaking form, tucking it around his bandmate. A sudden memory rises to the surface, of freezing nights and tour vans.

It’s almost instinctual as he climbs into the bed next to his friend, draping one of his arms over Paul’s waist and burying his face into the older man’s shoulder.

 _This is nice,_ he thinks, before drifting off, his thoughts still caught in the past, on what once was.

-//-

When Paul blinks awake again, it’s to the feeling of a cool cloth pressed against the burning skin of his forehead and a familiar presence at his side.

George is a warm against his shivering body, solid and grounding. He smells faintly of cigarettes and a sweet shampoo, his long hair soft as it brushes against the nape of Paul’s neck.

“Go back to sleep, McCartney,” George mutters softly, his words half-muddled in Paul’s shirt. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

And that’s all the reassurance Paul needs before he drifts into a dreamless abyss.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed!!
> 
> as always, feel free to leave requests in the comments below or hmu on tumblr @eveningmccartney or on instagram @eveningmercury !!!!


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